


no te vayas si no te quieres ir

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, every ship must have at least one, obligatory porn stars au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 15:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6710713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cristiano tries not to question Zidane’s decisions, but when they first meet, the kid's blushing. </p><p>It’s not until he hears Zidane’s “Action!” poised on the edge of the bed, glancing down at the shirtless torso on the bed that he gets it. Thinks, "Oh."</p><p>Or, the one where Cristiano and James make porn, have sex and possibly, accidentally fall in love. Zidane directs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no te vayas si no te quieres ir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuddlesordeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlesordeath/gifts).



> [[sweeping bow]](http://45.media.tumblr.com/50a4b26fd273bd09ad397afa54a3650d/tumblr_nypl0wbAXV1t2s3tho7_250.gif)

Cristiano Ronaldo is not having a very good morning.

Which means Zinedine Zidane is having a similarly bad morning.

"I trust you," Cristiano insists, but the conversation they're having suggests otherwise.

The director pinches the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, takes a soothing breath.

"He might be new, but he's good. He's interesting." He draws out the word, testing it. It’s a known fact in the industry, that Cristiano takes time to warm up to newcomers. He has no patience for amateurs, holds others to the same impossibly high standards he has for himself.

“I believe you,” Cristiano repeats. His hands are planted on his hips, holding perfectly still while the technician sprays bronzer in even stripes along his stomach.

“Then perhaps consider acting like it.” He says it mildly but the look he levels at Cristiano provides the steel.

He doesn't enjoy repeating himself, but he needs the best version of Cristiano to show up.

Cristiano remains unmoving, the hiss of the spray louder in the impending quiet. The technician drops to a knee to get at the tricky area where hip meets thigh.

"I do," Cristiano reiterates. Zidane raises a single eyebrow just a quarter of an inch. Cristiano blinks away.

"Glad to hear it. 10 am call time, don't be late."

Zidane lets just the crook of his mouth quirk up, pleased. He's almost there.

"You know," he begins, rises in a single fluid motion. "The Colombiano reminds me a little of you."

He strides out before he can see the challenge in Cristiano's eyes, or the other man can see the amusement in his.

 

-

 

Cristiano’s sure that he’s got the wrong person, because when they first meet, James isn’t the most compelling character. His hand shakes slightly in his firm grip. He meant it when he promised Zidane he’d keep the faith but...the kid’s blushing.

It’s not until he hears Zidane’s “Action!” poised on the edge of the bed, glancing down at the shirtless torso on the bed that he gets it. Thinks, "Oh."

Cristiano’s a consummate professional, enough to appreciate the picture James makes. He’s a study in contrasts, tanned arms and pink cheeks. A neat row of perfectly defined abs and a lingering softness low on his hips that makes Cristiano want to run the edge of his nails along the ridge of them.

James lays back against the crisp white sheets and lets his legs part invitingly. His hands are steady now, golden against the stark whiteness of the sheets, and his brown eyes are challenging, cocksure. Cristiano drops a knee onto the bedspread, leans with a hand hovering over his thigh. He’s memorized the script, knows what should come next. But even as James rips off his own shirt and flicks it away, the stain of his blush spills out over his shoulders. It’s distracting, how unrehearsed his reactions appear.

"Off, Cristiano," Zidane orders firmly. It brings him back, centers his focus as he begins to unbutton his own jacket. From there it’s easy, precisely choreographed motions. They demand nothing of him.

It’s simple until it’s not. Until James’ eyelids bear down against his cheeks, hands scrabbling for purchase in the sheets. He makes an aborted noise so needy, all desperation and demand, that Cristiano’s not sure it’s practiced. It reels through him, makes him suddenly bend forward to skim his mouth over James’ in a lazy rub. He barely remembers what it was like for him, in the early days, but kindness feels imperative.

Their noses touch, just barely, as he straightens up. James’ eyes shutter open, warm amber dripping into a pool. They keep watching one another even as the Colombian reaches for the buckle on his pants, so he catches the way his pupils widen. They devour the whites, dark and overwhelming.

His touch is light, more curiosity than intent, when he reaches inside and cups his fingers around Cristiano. He groans showily, moves into the touch. It feels good, like a bicep flexing underneath the stress of a curl. Comfortable, the instinctive reaction of his body. James bites at his nipple and it hardens predictably against his canine.

It goes quicker than he expected, the two falling into an easy rhythm. Cristiano moves and James follows. It’s nearly the end, his hands fisting in the already rumpled sheets, James’ nails digging into his waist, when Cristiano feels the side of the younger man’s thumb rubbing against his skin. Lazily, like he’s soothing Cristiano, like he's doing it without thinking.

He drives harder into him and James drops a kiss to his collarbone in reply.  

Zidane announces, “Cut.”

 

-

 

It’s an instant hit, the most downloaded film on their website overnight. It’s the highest rated debut for La Saeta Studios in nearly a decade, since a lanky just-legal kid from Portugal first signed with them.

 

-

 

It’s not as though Sergio Ramos has ever needed a reason to demand they all go out, but celebrating James’ recent success is the one he uses when he corners Marcelo.

“Don’t you want the new kid to feel included?” Sergio needles.

“Is he even old enough to drink?” Marcelo retorts, raising an eyebrow.

“I am!” James yells from behind them.

He’s wearing a sweater with a pug print on it, so his protest doesn’t mean much. Marcelo bursts into laughter at him.

“It’s from the shoot.” James smiles sheepishly.

“Wear something a little less jailbait tonight,” Sergio advises haughtily. It’s quite a feat considering he’s wearing a t-shirt with a talking horse on it.

“You coming?” James asks, sidling up to Cristiano. There’s a hickey forming high on his chest, peeking out from underneath the collar. Cristiano stares at it without meaning to.

He shakes his head.

“He’s coming,” Marcelo chimes in from the side, distracting Cristiano before he sees the way James’ face falls.

“I’m really not,” Cristiano insists.

He repeats it an hour later, while Marcelo’s rummaging through his drawers for a belt to borrow.

“You are,” he assures him cheerfully. He picks Cristiano’s favorite Gucci belt, black leather with Swarovski on the buckle.

“Not that one,” Cristiano tells him hastily. “I want…” He stops.

Marcelo’s head snaps to stare at him. He’s grinning wolfishly, a row of perfect white teeth.

“You want what?”

Cristiano lobs a balled-up pair of socks at his head.

“You wanna what?” He sings, tugging at Cristiano’s sweater. “You wanna wear it?”

“I’m not going.” Marcelo, who’s busy putting the address of the club into the GPS, nods sympathetically. Cristiano buckles his seatbelt with a sigh.

 

-

 

The club is like every other club in Madrid, dark, humid, more bass than harmony. The stench of beer and sweat-coated bodies winding around one another greets him at the door. He lets himself be pushed forward by Marcelo, catches a glimpse of Sergio hitting on the new financial advisor, Iker something.

Cristiano gives Marcelo a look when he tries to hand him a glass of something an unnatural pink orange color.

“Ay, bro, I know, I haven’t forgotten. It's just juice.”

He warily sips from the top while Marcelo holds onto the glass. There’s no underlying harshness, no biting edge.

“Mmm, good.”

He hands it off to Cristiano with an eye roll before hassling the bartender about his own drink.

Cristiano lets his eyes wander, nudges Marcelo and then gestures towards Sergo with his chin. He's striking out spectacularly, pout twisting his mouth while Iker leans back against the bar, shakes his head. Iker does it again and Cristiano can nearly hear the whine when Sergio speaks again.

Neither he nor Marcelo bother to hide their laughter. It's been years since they first met Sergio but he's still the same coltish, overeager flirt as ever. Fondness kindles inside of him at the thought.

He turns and somehow, he's not expecting him. It makes no sense, but it hits him all the same. James is in the middle of the dance floor, encircled by bodies, but apart. The eye in the whirlwind. His thighs look massive as they strain against the excruciatingly tight fabric of his white pants. His eyes are closed, lips parted and he's moving to the music like it's playing only for him. There's no hint of the shy boy with shaky hands from before.

It cracks through Cristiano like a bolt, lights up his spine.

He doesn't dance. Just like he wasn't going to go out tonight.

The crowd sways aside for Cristiano as he moves to him. He touches James with just the tips of his fingers, a brush along the strip of bare skin where his shirt's come loose. James moves into the touch blindly, innately trusting. Cristiano lets his whole hand slip inside and James leans forward, cheek against his shoulder.

Their hips line up instinctively and James manages to wrap an arm around his waist, and then it's just this. A slow, rolling grind, waves of heat pulsing over his skin. The beat's lazier now, more promise than delivery. James clutches at his shirt, fingers curling into the poplin at the small of his back. Holds him there as though he expects him to leave. Wordlessly, he lets his hand wander up and James sighs into his neck.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" James' lips catch on his skin when he asks it. Cristiano's not sure if it's the touch or the words that send the shiver skittering down his back.

"Ask me nicely," he teases and feels James lift his head up. He leans back just enough to meet his eyes.

It's dark, but not enough to obscure the sudden determination sparking to life.

"Kiss me." His breath's panting out of his  open mouth, his eyes are wide and just a little glossy, but the words remain a command nonetheless. James' other hand  ghosts  up his chest to hook a finger into the top button. It falls open so easily underneath his thumb. Cristiano sympathizes.

He exhales, head dipping down to acquiesce.

He loses the thread of it even before he finds James' mouth with his own. He crowds Cristiano, surging up onto his tiptoes. The tips of his short nails press high into his chest and he's licking around, and then into Cristiano's mouth. He pulls him closer, shoves a thigh between James' legs for him to rub against. He's not sure whose groan echoes in their joined mouths, but he chases after it.

James insistently pulls at the back of the shirt, trying to get it out of his pants.

For a bright, blistering second, he considers it. Dropping down to his knees, pressing James back until he's leaning against the bar, and sliding him down the back of his throat. Root to tip, until the taste of him bloomed onto his tongue.

He wonders which version of James would show up then.

He takes him to his house to find out.

Cristiano drives and James sits, silent and still. His hands are folded neatly in his lap.

The Portuguese wraps his fingers tightly around the steering wheel to keep from reaching out, lets the music fill in the spaces of silence.

"Do you do this often?" James asks. Cristiano turns sharply to glance at him. The younger man’s staring out the window, speaking mostly to the glass. His reflection gazes into the darkness.

Cristiano doesn't. But he doesn't reply either.

James continues to stare off into the distance.

 

-

 

He left the door of his house unlocked, shrugs when Cristiano comments on it.

"It's a nice neighborhood."

He knows, lives only three blocks away. Still. He slips off his shoes and watches James disappear into the kitchen.

"Would you like a drink?" James offers. He leans back against the counter and it punches through Cristiano, how much it resembles his earlier imaginings.

He shakes his head as he strides forward. James shakes his head back at him playfully.

In the morning, he will blearily recall this as the last moment when he felt sure of his footing. But the tides shift and the sand goes liquid beneath him. He remembers dragging James' shirt out of his pants, remembers biting at the plushness of his bottom lip. The sound of buttons flying as James recklessly rends his shirt in two.

The overwarm skin of James' body underneath his fingertips. Flesh vulnerably light, going pink and red and moon-white underneath his hands. James bites at the tender spot near his bellybutton and it's Cristiano that trembles this time.

There's no hesitation, no quiet questions. James touches him like he knows how, likes he's figured him out already, and it makes Cristiano close his eyes. He doesn't remember him leaving, but his light footfalls signal that he must've. The Portuguese turns, means to hitch him up against his thigh again, but James boxes him in. He presses forward until Cristiano's lower belly drags against the countertop, palms slapping onto the marble. James is on his tiptoes as he sucks on the spot between neck and shoulder from behind, a hand running down his stomach before cupping Cristiano fully.

He makes a broken noise he didn't know he was capable of.

"Shhh," James soothes, drops kisses along his shoulderblade. "I've got you."

Cristiano's head falls forward, eyes slamming shut. His jeans pool around his feet but he can't even bother to lift them, not when James is clearly spreading his legs apart and stepping between. He hasn't done this in long enough that he tightens immediately at the cold shock of a lubed finger. But James times it perfectly, the warm fingers of his other hand simultaneously wrapping around his cock. It's overwhelming, makes Cristiano shake against him, trapped between his two wide hands. It's perfect.

Another finger makes Cristiano gasp. A third and he considers begging.

But he doesn't need to, because James has him, reminds him with a row of kisses along the line of his spine. He runs his tongue along the divots low on his hips and moves like he's going lower, but Cristiano isn't sure he can last much longer. Everything narrows down to the places where they're touching.

He whimpers, opens his mouth and lets the word "Please" form on his lips just as James slides inside of him. Relief shudders through him instantly, sensation punching into him as James drives deeper.

 

-

 

Cristiano leaves the next morning while James snores ungently into the pillow, his limbs sprawled everywhere. It gets dicey when he has to unfold James’ hand from where it’s curled loosely around his bicep. Holding onto him in sleep.

He scavenges for his clothes, his pants in a pool on the kitchen shirt, his wrinkled shirt hanging off the staircase. It’s beyond repair, only has three buttons still stubbornly clinging on.

His shoes are by the doorway, neatly arranged to fit in with the row of James’. It nearly makes him feel guilty, except he reminds himself it’s not a thing.

 

-

 

It’s not a thing when James follows him into the showers on set a few days later. Cristiano hadn’t even known he was filming until he’d stepped in, the water hot as it beats down on his shoulders.

Suds trail down his chest as he washes the shampoo out of his hair when he feels a hand against the small of his back. He starts.

“Jesus,” he hisses and James nearly balks before forcing himself to stand in his place.

“Sorry,” he says sincerely.

His step forward is tentative, slow enough that he’s giving Cristiano time to say no. He’s had a long day, a sports-themed video with Marcelo and Sergio that required extraordinary acts of flexibility. His quads are aching and his arms protest every movement.

But James bites his bottom lip and Cristiano finds arousal underneath the exhaustion, finds himself wanting to do the same. Wants to watch his teeth leave indents in the giving curve of his mouth. 

He doesn’t say no, lets James take another step, then another. Until his broad palms are flat against the white of the tiles, his body surrounding him. It's the mirror image of the first time, and Cristiano likes this better, being able to see him. The steam rises and Cristiano watches as James’ face disappears behind it, then reappears. As if in a dream.

He lets his eyes close, gives into the way his muscles begin to loosen underneath the spray of the shower and James’ questing mouth wandering lower.

 

-

 

It's not a thing two weeks later when James shows up on an off day with a greasy bag of burgers.

Cristiano opens the door in a sweat-drenched tank and workout shorts. James doesn't even pretend to hide the slow look down his body and back up to his eyes. A blush skims against his cheekbone.

"I brought lunch," James tells him, gaze lingering of the glossy cut of his pecs.

Cristiano raises an eyebrow at him. They have the same nutritionist, so he knows for a fact that whatever's in that bag isn't on the approved list.

James shrugs instead, digs another fry out of the bag and stuffs it into his mouth.

"They're still warm," he comments while chewing. Cristiano can smell them, can see the salt stubbornly clinging to James' bottom lip. It’s too tempting for him to resist

He leans in, swipes his tongue along the seam of James' mouth.  He makes this surprised squeak in response and Cristiano chuckles into the kiss.

The bag's still in his left hand when James pushes Cristiano back inside his house.

It’s not a thing when Cristiano invites him out shopping with himself and Marcelo, or when James accepts. Or when he and Marcelo bully Cristiano into trying on some truly tragic outfits. He pretends to be disgruntled and disapproving, but poses beautifully, makes a sweeping bow when they make him try on a tuxedo jacket. James claps, unapologetic, and Marcelo laughs fondly. Cristiano's not sure which of them that's directed at, but he finds he minds sharing Marcelo's affection less than he expected. Especially after he manages to convince James to give him a hand in the fitting room. (They don't get banned from that particular Gucci store, but only barely.)

Or when Sergio invites him to a concert and expects James to come along with. James makes ridiculous faces behind the Spaniard’s back while he makes forlorn eyes at Iker most of the night. The man looks terribly out of place, wearing a cardigan and ill-fitting jeans. But when Sergio shivers and he offers him the sweater, James hides his face into Cristiano’s shoulder and Cristiano can feel him smile.

 

-

 

Or when he finds himself driving home after a long shoot, with a Brazilian partner he hasn't worked with in a long time. It's not taxing, not particularly difficult, but his body's too worn to consider anything physical. He's staring at the stoplight, waiting for it to change. If he makes a left, he's at James'. If he makes a right, he's at his own. It's.

If he goes home, his kitchen floor will be cold beneath his feet, the empty corners of the house holding onto the silence. He likes it that way, the air still, his own place where he belongs only to himself.

If he goes to James', there will be noise and light and movement. And normally, he hates that. Except, it'll be the noise of James yelling at FIFA or the light of his fridge left open while he grabs ingredients to make dinner. The slow impulsive sway of his hips as he hums along underneath his breath to the reggaeton.

The light turns green.

He makes a left.

 

-

 

It’s obscenely early the following morning when Cristiano rips the covers off his body.

“Rise and shine,” he announces brightly.

“No!” James latches onto the pillow with both arms, buries his face into it.

“Come on,” he encourages, brushing his fingers along his side. James wriggles away.

“Go away! You’re mean and I don’t like you,” he whines, kicking out aimlessly.

Cristiano scoffs, as though it’s unthinkable.

“You’ll go soft if you stay in that bed, and Zidane’s not going to pair me up with the Pillsbury Dough Boy,” he threatens.

He looks a bit like a belligerent wac-a-mole, the way his hair’s mussed when his head pops up off the pillow.

“First of all,” James begins before flinging the pillow at Cristiano's head.

He catches it with a laugh.

“You’re worse than my actual kid. Up!”

“I’m a treasure!” James proclaims, starfishing onto his stomach before groaning into the sheets. Cristiano knows he’s won when James flops his arms around before pushing himself up into a half upward dog.

“You owe me breakfast,” he informs Cristiano, stomping off into the bathroom. The boxer briefs he shamelessly stole from Cristiano's drawers hang low on his hips.

Cristiano shakes his head, thinks about what he can manage to make for them. Tries not to smile.

James isn’t swinging his legs as he perches on top of the kitchen counter, but he is drinking from a juicebox he unearthed from somewhere, so Cristiano’s pretty sure it’s a draw.

“You’re a cliche,” he comments. His voice is amused, elbow and hip resting against the marble near him.

James chooses to ignore the comment, sucking noisily at the very last bit of it. He finishes with a pleased sigh, placing it carefully on the counter.

“Where is he now?” James asks. It seems like a non-sequitur but he’s staring at the pristine stainless steel of the fridge door. A single picture hangs on it, Cristiano stretched out on a chaise lounger, Ninho’s head resting on his bronze chest. His image, preserved in miniature.

“Portugal. With cousins.” He shrugs but stares at James’ knee. “During the school year, he’s here. But during the summer, I just don’t want him to be.” He trails off, shrugs again. He grew up surrounded by siblings and dozens of cousins only barely related to him. He wants that for Ninho.

James doesn’t ask if he misses him, doesn’t push. But when Cristiano's slotting bread into the toaster, he hangs around close, lets their sides brush reassuringly.

 

-

 

One night, James puts his feet up on Cristiano's lap while he's bouncing through the channels, trying to find something interesting to watch. They've already gone through most of the shows he's had TiVo'd, but neither of them had been up for Sergio's invite to go dancing. Cristiano looks down at his pale feet against his dark gray sweatpants, considers pushing them off. He's not particularly the cuddly type, finds it a waste of a touch. But James' heel is cold and Cristiano wraps a hand around his ankle, strokes his skin lazily until he begins to heat up again.

That night, he gently nudges James onto his back on the bed. He goes easily, brown eyes wide and warm. He's reaching for Cristiano even before his head fully hits the pillow, like he somehow doubts that he's coming along too. They're both a little sleepy, so Cristiano climbs on top of his hips and helps with the prep, slides one of his own fingers alongside James'. It knocks a whimper out of his own throat, makes him clutch ungently at James' hip. His nails dig into skin but James doesn't seem to notice, only leans into to rub his face along Cristiano's chest.

James kisses at his sternum, sets his teeth to his nipple just as he twists his buried fingers. Cristiano's head nearly snaps back, eyes blown open and blind. Slowly, achingly slowly, they draw their fingers out and James leans back against the pillows, half-upright, rubs his fingers over the sheets. Cristiano would complain if he could think about anything but the perfect slide of James' dick as he sinks down onto it. The Colombiano gasps against his shoulder, presses his fingers against his hips to arch him closer.

The angle lets him thrust up just once, to the hilt, makes a keening noise well up and burst from Cristiano's mouth. Cristiano needs.

He doesn't know, everything inside his head a wild jumble of _too much_ and _more, more, please_. He drags his nails down his arm, seeking him out. But James is there, reaching for his fingers, threading them together. 

When they eventually fall asleep, disgusting and tacky and too heavy to even clean up, their pinkies are still linked together.

 

-

 

It’s not a thing, but it keeps happening.

 

-

 

He’s heading onto set one day when he hears someone call James’ name.

Cristiano turns, watches Isco sling an arm around his shoulder and whisper something into his ear. From his angle, he manages to catch the high curves of James’ cheekbones going pink.

He’s been in the business long enough to understand composition, angles. The way their heads brush, James’ arm snaking around Isco’s waist. Cristiano thinks how right it looks. How easily it could be framed.

Jealousy hooks into him, sharp and invasive. He allows himself fury and delight, despair and hope. But he’s always deemed envy to be beneath him.

Isco laugh chimes prettily and James’ is quieter, but no less full of delight.

Cristiano doesn’t disturb the picture.

He’s tired by the time he steps onto the shoot.

It's the sort that he tries to avoid, too many tight-shots, too much focus on his face, too intimate. They're all chasing after a feeling.

An hour in, Zidane steps out from behind the camera to lean over his back and whisper, "Prove it to _me._ Prove you've still got it."

It makes him grit his teeth, anger overripe as it rolls down his spine. He turns his head just an inch to glare out of the corner of his eye and Zidane smiles serenely back at him.

"Close." He slips back behind the lens.

Cristiano tilts his chin up defiantly, pride unfurling the wings of his shoulder. His eyes go dark but his gaze remains sharp, like headlights disrupting the night.

His lips part inch by inch, a hand disappears into the thin white t-shirt. it's so flimsy that he can make out the shape of his fingers against his stomach. He imagines what it might be like with only Zidane here, skepticism in his eyes and amusement quirking his mouth.

When he digs his nails into the tender flesh, he doesn't bother the smother the gasp that sounds out. He lets his face carry the image of it, raw and desperate and accusing.

_Take me._

_Want me._

His hand glides down, fingertips toying with the waistband

When he finally lets them tread below, he blinks once, opens them up just in time to catch Zidane's gaze above the shuttering lens. He keeps them locked there as he wraps his fingers around himself.

He manages to hold the exhaustion at bay until Zidane’s, “Cut” echoes in the empty space. But it takes both hands pushing against the bedspread to help him rise and his legs shake beneath the effort. Zidane's hand is comfortingly warm when it wraps around the back of the neck and he lets himself bow into it.

"You did so good." The pad of his thumb strokes beneath his earlobe, back and forth. " _So_ good." Cristiano closes his eyes, lets the touch sink in. It would be so easy to let himself be taken care of, to take him up on the offer underneath the simple touch.

He drives home instead.

It’s too late to call Ninho, so he leaves him a video of himself singing “Good morning, Sun” for when he wakes up. He scrolls through recent pictures of him on his phone. His little face, same eyes, but a button of a nose, soft and round. He misses him until the pang draws out long and sweet.

There's leftover chicken and broccoli in the fridge. He eats half of it leaning against it, doesn't even bother to heat it up properly.

The stillness spreads over him.

His sheets are starchy crisp when he slides underneath them that night, cool against his naked skin. He turns his face into the pillow, then away. He kicks the covers off, and then tugs them back on. He rolls onto his back before turning over, groaning into the now-warm pillow case.

He waits, for something that never comes. Settles for sleep instead.

 

-

 

He’s searching for his belt and can’t remember where he might have left it. A few minutes in, he gets slightly frantic, upending his entire drawer of socks and belts onto his bed. It’s not there, but he can’t go into this meeting without it. He wore it the very first time Jorge Mendes decided he was ready to meet Veronique, and has worn it every time since.

He wracks his mind for when he saw it last. Maybe Sergio’s surprise birthday party thrown by Iker. Maybe the night they’d gone out to celebrate Paul the accountant getting his license. The night he’d let James bend him over the arm of his couch when they’d gotten back to his house. Top 10 material.

His lips toy with a smile as he remembers, stuffing everything back into the drawer when he freezes with it.

If it’s not here, then there’s only one other place it could be.

Because, he realizes with startling clarity, it’s been months since he slept with anyone besides James, much less went home with them.

That's.

The doorbell chimes mercifully.

He doesn't even bother with a greeting.

"Hey, sorry, I know you have your big meeting today but you left this at my place and I know how you get, so here," James rambles in a single breath. The belt is folded carefully in his hands, buckle sparkling in the light like it's recently been cleaned.

"Thanks," Cristiano manages, mind slogging through sand to catch up. It's only been two days but, it unknots something inside of him.

"Of course. Good luck!" He chirps, rising onto his tiptoes to kiss his cheek lightly.

Cristiano catches him by the crook of his arm.

"Hey," he protests before drawing him forward. James looks up at him, questioning but without any hesitation.

It's the most chaste kiss he remembers giving since he learned how. Careful in a way they aren't. A stroke of his mouth over his, fingers still gently cupping his elbow. They're not really touching anywhere else but it sweeps through him the same, the aching tenderness of it.

He blinks up at him, eyelashes impossibly dark and long against his cheeks. Cristiano strokes the pad of his thumb over his still-glossy bottom lip and James watches, lets him.

"I gotta go," he reminds them, mostly himself.

"Yeah," James says, voice shades away from steady.

Cristiano thinks about it the entire drive to the studio.

 

-

 

Cristiano raps his knuckles sharply against the door.

"Enter."

Her back's turned to him, head bent forward to speak to Zidane who's perched on the arm of a lounger. Her dark hair falls in an uninterrupted sheet down her shoulders. It's shorter now than when he first met her, but when she swivels to greet him, she's the same as she ever was. Equal parts intimidating and alluring.

"Bonjour."

She speaks five languages fluently, but always insists on greeting in French. He moves forward to kiss her cheeks politely. The scent of her perfume, bright citrus with an underlying sharpness, is as familiar as a reoccurring dream.

"How are things?" She asks.

Cristiano shrugs a shoulder.

She arranges herself neatly into her high-backed chair and peers imperiously at him, waves a perfectly manicured hand for him to sit down.

He does, meets her eyes then.

She smiles only with her mouth, sleek and leonine. He senses immediately what's coming next.

"Zizou tells me you've warmed up to our new star."

He's never heard anyone but Veronique call him that.

"I get along with all my costars," he allows. Her gaze sharpens.

"Some more than others."

"Yes."

She tilts her head every so slightly.

"He currently has the most requests on the docket."

"How good for him," Cristiano replies, leans back in his chair. Discomfort turns his stomach, but the thought of allowing her to see a vulnerability is far more terrifying.

"And you would have no problems with me assigning him to new projects, more... _experimental_ works?" The word slips heavily from her tongue like rotten fruit.

He quirks an eyebrow at her in feigned incredulity.

"In the near decade since I started, have I ever given you reason to doubt my professionalism?"

"No."

"Then why should this now?"

In the background, he hears the rustling of Zidane fidgeting in his seat.

"Why, indeed."

She purses her lips as the amusement quirks in her eyes instead.

"Well, then, on to more pressing business."

 

-

 

Cristiano blows out the breath he'd been holding the entire meeting as soon as he's outside. He's nearly out to the parking lot when he hears his voice being called.

Zidane holds up a hand, but doesn't speed up as he strides towards him.

He's the last person Cristiano has any interest in seeing.

"I'm not on the schedule for today," he bites out.

"Cristiano." His voice sounds tired.

"What was that?" Cristiano demands, the words out even before he's fully thought it through.

"You know what tha--"

"No, I mean, what? I wouldn't let you fuck me so you tattled on me to your wife? Was that the sequence of events?"

Zidane snorts dismissively at him.

"Was this your attempt at being subtle, Cristiano? Making out with him at company celebrations? Taking him shopping at the stores where you're constantly photographed? Going on dimly-lit romantic dinner dates? There's no way you could've thought she wouldn't figure it out."

 _I don't care,_ he wants to spit out. He hadn't.

"It's none of her business."

"It's mine."

"It won't affec--"

He fixes him with a look so purely Zidane that Cristiano feels pinned to the spot, suddenly bared.

"You're my business."

“Then what?”

“Then don’t lie to us. To me.” Zidane makes sure to look straight at him when he adds, “To yourself.”

 

-

 

He gets a new email alert when he’s about to climb out of his car, thumbs down to look at it. It’s from Veronique, with an attachment, which means it’s his schedule for the upcoming month. He opens it with a nagging sense of dread in his gut.

It’s a blank calendar, no dates or assignments yet filled in.

The email reads simply, “Decide.”

He stares up at the closed door to his garage. Blinks. Turns the engine back on and drives.

James’ smile greets him at the door. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt that he clearly stole from Cristiano because it’s loose around the arms and waist.

“How’d it go?” he asks, moving aside to make room for Cristiano to step inside.

Cristiano slides a hand underneath the hem and buries his face into the side of his neck, closes his eyes and inhales. He smells like the detergent they both use.

“Good. Better now.”

James arms come up, one around his back, the other cupping the back of his head.

“I’m glad,” James admits softly. Cristiano feels his mouth drop a kiss to his temple. He leans into him, feels enveloped.

 

-

 

Later, James is chopping vegetables into neat shapes and Cristiano is stealing bites of them, but he calls it supervising so it's okay.

It's quieter than usual, no soft humming, no heavy dembow blasting in the back. But James noses against Cristiano's sleeve when he passes by, nudges him with his hip to move from the stove.

The house breathes around them, and Cristiano looks at him, the straight line of his back, the deft way his hands move. The way his proximity feels steady, right.

He moves to stand next to him, touches an elbow to his side gently.

“Hmm?” James wonders.

“Do you want to visit Portugal sometime?”

He hadn't realized how much he wanted this until the words are out, but it's too late to take them back. The knife in James' hand stops mid-air and for a second, Cristiano’s heart follows suit.

“Yes.”

It comes down again, a light snap of bell pepper. Cristiano's heart settles simultaneously.

 

-

 

It’s a thing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments are deeply treasured.


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